


into the forest

by sagexbrush



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Love, Talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 20:41:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5430116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagexbrush/pseuds/sagexbrush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His crappy jeep smells like cheap gum and those little pine tree car fresheners, and somehow it reminds her of home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	into the forest

**Author's Note:**

> so i originally had this posted a while ago - and a common trend with me is, i get nervous about something and i delete it because i feel it didn't 'do' good enough.  
> well, to get over that stupidness - i decided to just post this goddamn.

            She finds him sitting in his Jeep on the outskirts of town, his feet propped on the steering wheel and his head craned back, mouth slightly open because he’s fallen asleep like the major dork he is.

            Sometime, like a year ago, he had given her a copy of his car keys ( _it’s for emergencies Lyds. You know, the supernatural kind?_ ) And ever since then she’s kept them in her bag, on a lanyard with a billion other keys. To the school closet, to Scott’s house, to Stiles’ house and even one to the police station she was 95% sure the Sheriff didn’t know about.

            So she unlocks his car with a mere flick of her finger, and climbs into the passenger seat like it’s her place, like she had _always_ been there.

            She hasn’t.

            His crappy jeep smells like cheap gum and those little pine tree car fresheners, and somehow it reminds her of home.

            She copies him, leaning back, slipping off her shoes and placing her bare feet on the dashboard.

            “Stiles,” she then says, as calmly and quietly as possible. He wakes with a start, his hand automatically reaching for some random object. He comes up with an empty coffee cup, lifts it over his head, and prepares to throw it.

            “Lydia?” _confused_ is a good look on him she thinks, it makes his hair more messy and his mouth slightly lopsided. “What the – what the hell?”

            She dangles her keys in front of him and then fixes her gaze on the car ceiling.

            “You weren’t answering your phone. Mama Scott got worried, so I figured out where you would be.”

            “Wha – how?”

            “Your phone,” she gives him a close-lipped smile, “It has a tracking device installed.”

            To his credit, he doesn’t take this the wrong way and instead slumps back into his original position, but this time with his eyes open.

            “So you tracked me.”

            “You were asking to be tracked.”

            “Was I?”

            “Falling asleep in the middle of nowhere?” she tilts her head just slightly, “Maybe just a little.”

            “Didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he says, slightly sheepishly, “Just came out here to think.”

            She thinks they all think too much. They’re so filled with thoughts and words, with meaningful glances and lies that being alone wasn’t a good idea.

            “Do you miss Malia?” it’s probably a stupid question, she probably shouldn’t be prying into his business, but part of her is itching to know. “I mean – she went after her Mother.”

            “She’s safe,” he answers, hesitantly like he’s unsure of the words on his lips, “She went with Derek, remember?”

            “I do.”

            Malia had left shortly after the Dread Doctors defeat, saying that she needed to take care of her mother _once and for all._ She hadn’t wanted Stiles or any of the other’s to come, but had allowed Derek to accompany her on short notice.

            “Do you miss her?” she repeats, and he rolls his eyes.

            “Of course I do.”

            She rolls down her window so the forest air is brushing against her nose. There’s something about this atmosphere that makes her feel more at peace than she does in her own home. It seems fit, a wild place for wild people.

            “Is that why you came out here to think?”

            “Jesus Lyds, is this like a phycology meeting or something?” his words are meant to be joking but instead come out forced and defensive. She taps her bare feet against the dashboard, humming a popular pop song under her breath. It’s a habit she’s picked up recently, one she can’t seem to shake, the nervous fidgeting in intense situations.

            “We don’t get much room for privacy anymore,” she reminds him, “And plus – there’s nothing you can say to me that will make you sound crazy.”

            He laughs, like the reminder of a previous battle, a previous struggle when she was innocent and (mostly) human and he was not a killer (yet) but the laugh sounds fake.

            “My Mom died tomorrow,” he says, “I mean – it’s the anniversary of her death.”

            It isn’t what she was expecting. Her toes come off the dashboard with a thunk, and her eyes widen slightly.

            “Oh?”

            “Oh.”

            She knows, knows because of Allison and her parents divorce, that saying sorry won’t fix anything. She can’t be sorry because it wasn’t, at least _this_ wasn’t, her fault.

            So she instead tries for a different tactic.

            “What was she like?”

            His eyes are guarded when he looks back at her, he didn’t used to be so guarded. He used to be an open book, emotions on his sleeve for anyone to see.

            “My Mom?”

            “No – Greenburg. Yes your Mom.”

            The corners of his mouth twitch, and she thinks it might be a real privilege to see him smile, just once.

            “She was, well before the illness anyways, she was the… she was like the moon,” he finally decides on, “A bright light in a dark sky.”

            She thinks she knows how he feels, because when he looks at her, she thinks she sees the stars, bright pinpricks of light that dimly light up the sky after her moon (Allison) went out.

            “And now – “

            “It’s like there’s just this black space,” he says, “You know, when the moon isn’t there, and your eyes are still searching for it – just searching for this thing, this thing that isn’t _there_ and suddenly your sky is going dark.”

            “There’s always stars.”

            “I don’t have many of those anymore,” he lets out a long exhale.

            “You’ve got me,” she lightly nudges her shoulder with his, and she isn’t really sure what she just said – calling herself _his_ star? _Smooth Lydia, real smooth._

            “Do I?” he asks simply.

            She frowns, “What do you mean?”

            “I just,” his hands are shaking, “Everyone left.”

            “Scott, your Dad and I – “

            “They don’t look at me,” he replies in a heated whisper, “Not anymore. They look over me, ever since – ever since – “ his voice breaks off, and the name _Donovan_ rings off the car walls like bells and maybe, a fainter, quieter, _Allison_.

            “Do you know,” she says, not sure if it’s the right thing to say, but she never knows what to say anymore (Allison was always better at this, at words), “I blamed myself for my parents divorce.”

            His eyes flicker to her’s, and he doesn’t say anything, knowing that she doesn’t want reassurances, not now.

            “My Dad blamed me too I think,” she lets out a sour laugh, “I overheard him talking to my Mom one day, and for whatever reason I couldn’t forget that. I couldn’t get it out of my head that they blamed me for what had happened, and for a long time I felt like they were avoiding me.”

            “You didn’t kill someone.”

            “No,” she says carefully, “I didn’t. But if we’re counting self defense as sins now, our world just got a whole lot darker.

            “Like the moon’s gone out,” he whispers, and he takes his feet off the steering wheel so he can more easily put his head in his hands.

            She thinks they’re too old for this.

            “It’s going to be okay Stiles,” she murmurs, “Truly.”

            He looks up at her, his eyes shadows. “Why are you doing this?”

            “Doing what?”

            “Helping me.”

            “Because you’re my friend, and Donovan isn’t even dead anyways.”

            “But I’ve been a shitty friend lately,” he says, and she snorts.

            “You were possessed by an evil spirit Stiles, you get some time to be a shitty friend.”

            “I shouldn’t have been one though.”

            “There’s a lot of things we should have done differently,” she declares, and the names _jacksonericaboydallisonaiden_ twirl around in her mind like ballet dancers, “But hiding out in the woods isn’t going to help anything.”

            His mouth quirks up. _Almost a smile._ “We live in Beacon Hills. We practically live in the woods.”

            She laughs again, and this time gets a smile in return.

            “I say,” she swings her feet back on the dashboard, “That we lay out here and tell each other random facts before going to your house and binge watching Star Wars.”

            “Who are you and what have you done with Lydia Martin?”

            When he smiles, she sees the constellations in his eyes shine slightly brighter as he begins to tell her something about monkeys.

            She may have helped him, but he still wasn’t her’s.

            She watches his mouth move. _That’s Malia’s to kiss._

His hands flick around his head as he talks, already starting to drag himself out from the dark corners of his mind.

            _Those are her’s to hold._

But his words, her bare feet on the dashboard, and the forest air – are all her’s.

            Besides, he had told her to wait long ago, not in words but gestures, shaky hands, eyes that said _not yet_ a fragile mouth –

            Lydia could wait.

**Author's Note:**

> if you made it to the end - you're my kind of person.  
> anyways -   
> my tumblr is sagexbrush (i'd love it if you sent me a writing request)  
> and my instagram is inhuman.stiles (or dm me a writing request)


End file.
